


Twelve Christmases Of Days

by LunaStorm



Series: The Trip of a Lifetime [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-08 08:53:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8838277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaStorm/pseuds/LunaStorm
Summary: What little Mycroft does notice, is an unknown man scrambling on all fours in Mummy's snow covered garden. And frankly, he is not impressed.





	1. Christmas Day, 1982

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What little Mycroft does notice, is an unknown man scrambling on all fours in Mummy's snow covered garden. And frankly, he is not impressed.

In later years, Mycroft Holmes will always berate himself for not realizing, at the time, that he was living through one of the most significant meetings of his entire life.

In his defense, when he sees the strangest man he'll ever encounter for the first time, he's just a child still; but that is no excuse for someone like him, at least in his opinion.

He may be young and inexperienced, but he's clearly smarter than anyone he's ever met, except perhaps Mummy. He realizes that there are many things he doesn't know yet, of course, but that is simply because he hasn't had the time or inclination to study them. He'll remedy that in time.

And even as a child, he prides himself on his keen understanding above anything else, so in hindsight, he'll find it incomprehensible that he didn't realize the momentuousness of that meeting.

The fact remains however, that on that cold Christmas Day, he simply doesn't notice.

What he does notice, is an unknown man scrambling on all fours in Mummy's snow covered garden.

And frankly, little Mycroft Holmes isn't particularly impressed. But then, he is seldom impressed with anything, even at the tender age of nine. He has long before decided within himself not to let the oddities of the world make him react like a wide-eyed _baby_. He's smarter than that.

Mycroft shouldn't even be in the garden, of course. He is only there because he needs some peace and quiet: hard-won commodities since he became an elder brother. Little Sherlock is throwing a tantrum again – the fifth this morning alone – and Mycroft has chosen to take refuge outside, because the cold is bitter but well worth bearing in exchange for the calm he craves. One simply can't enjoy Bertrand Russel's work if one's brother is screaming his lungs out in one's ears.

Mycroft huddles in his coat and tries to calculate how long he'll be able to sit and read out in the snow before incurring in some unpleasant aftereffect of exposure. He needs a medical text on hypothermia, he can't remember much more than the word at the moment. He'll ask Mummy later.

All thoughts of books leave him as soon as he hears, and a moment later spots, the strange man crawling along the hawthorn hedge, a grey-blue greatcoat (Mycroft isn't sure why it feels out of place, but it does) fanning out all around him (it must be ankle-length when the man is standing) and dragging in the snow, leaving broad swipes to mark the stranger's passage on the white lawn while he shuffles forward, thrusting a searching arm underneath the low branches and sometimes lowering himself to peer under the hedge.

Discarding his copy of “A History of Western Philosophy” without care, Mycroft wanders over, observing the man curiously and listening to his half-grumbled and rather colourful mutterings. It does not occur to him to be scared. After all, he is confident in his own ability to judge danger, he knows the area better so he estimates he'll hide quicker than the man can catch him if it comes to running, and anyway, Mummy and Father are just a shout away. And an unknown man in Mummy's garden is an oddity worth investigating.

“I doubt you will find it there,” he comments after a while.

The man jumps in shock, hits his head on the tangle of thin branches, curses loudly, probably hurts himself tearing his hair away from the thorns it had snagged itself on, curses some more and struggles to his feet, a rivulet of red staining his temple where some hawthorn berries have been squashed by his bustling.

He towers over the child, frowning more in confusion than anything else. Mycroft regards him placidly.

His coat has a military cut, with a belt the man doesn't tie and brass buttons with a crown and a flying bird (Mycroft decides at once to look up insigna soon, starting with RAF) and despite the cold it is open over a dark blue shirt and utilitarian black trousers with suspenders in plain view (Mycroft wrinkles his nose because that is so *gauche*) and faded laced-up work shoes in very poor condition (not at all what you'd expect from a soldier – _is_ the man a soldier?).

He has a gun in a belt holster and brilliantly white teeth. The teeth catch Mycroft's attention more than the gun because that kind of perfect smile requires serious dentistry, but if the man can afford that level of dental care, why does he wear those horrid old shoes?

“Huh… what?” asks the man, still looking spooked, and Mycroft rolls his eyes. People are so *slow*.

“The creature you're looking for,” he explains condescendingly. “You will not find it in our hedgerow.”

The man frowns, watching Mycroft with eyes full of suspicion. The child isn't bothered. Most people look at him like that – as if their little brains couldn't reconcile themselves to Mycroft's existence and therefore needed to find some kind of trick that would explain away his intelligence in terms they can accept.

“What makes you think I'm looking for a creature?”

Mycroft is almost distracted because the man is _American_ – how unlikely is that in this area of the country? - but then he gives the man a flat glare because seriously? He likes showing off, however, so if the man wants to play this silly game, fine: Mycroft will win the match.

“That you are searching for something alive is obvious; it can't be an object because you expect it to move and it can't be self-moving technology, like something with an engine, because you aren't listening to any noises and besides, you clearly expect it to _hide,”_ he says, without bothering to temper his contempt. “You aren't calling out any names, so it's not a person and it's not a pet. Conclusion: you are looking for an animal of some sort and it's not tame. A creature.”

The man stares at him, predictably, but the look in his eyes is less the typical dumbfounded astonishment and more a sort of calculating weighing, as if he was wondering what Mycroft might be, and perhaps, of how much use.

Mycroft is intrigued.

“It's small, small enough that it can fit under a hedge; like a rabbit or a fox,” he goes on smugly. (He does like to show off.) “It's not used to humans, otherwise it wouldn't be prone to hiding in hedges. You're sticking your arm in without fear however so it's probably not dangerous, not even in the basic, likely-to-bite-you way. Not a predator, then: more a rabbit than a fox. Except it's rarer than that, obviously. You're rather desperate to find it, otherwise you wouldn't be crawling in the snow for it, so it's valuable somehow. It mustn't be too important though or there would be more people looking for it. Since it's Christmas, it could be a present for someone I suppose, but the tone of your complaints is all wrong for that. You're like someone whining about what their boss will do to them if they can't do their job well enough. So, most likely, you were in charge of it and it escaped and you must find it or face consequences at work.”

Now the American is openly gaping. He doesn't deny anything however, not even with body language, so Mycroft nods to himself. “Did you lose an experiment, then?” he deduces, fiercely proud of himself when the man's eyes widen further. “Your secret facility must be close. Even if it was very, very fast, something that small couldn't cover much ground in modern-day England.”

There is a silence broken only by the rustling of a robin nearby.

Mycroft is feeling positively smug. The American is pursing his lips in apparent annoyance (probably at how this too clever child in front of him is radiating self-satisfaction: Mycroft is rather familiar with that reaction) and for a moment he almost looks dangerous but Mycroft is smarter than that and he can tell he has impressed the man. He has every right to feel smug.

“...Something like that,” the American concedes at last. He shakes his head, starting to smile: “You're pretty amazing, you know that?”

“Yes.”

“...Right. Of course you do.” And now the man is laughing at him and Mycroft scowls. See if he helps him anymore!

The man looks around a bit helplessly, running a hand through his thick dark hair. It's pretty clear he's re-evaluating the area for other potential hiding spots but that he doesn't really have a clue how to find his quarry.

Mycroft notices the sharp assessing gaze, the way the man stands and balances himself, the way he doesn't try to hide the gun (he clearly has the right to carry it, and perhaps even use it, among civilians) but isn't making a show of it for intimidation (it's just a tool to him).

“How can you be military and not at the same time?” he blurts out with childish frustration. He meant to maintain a dignified silence in retaliation for the patronizing attitude, but this man doesn't make sense and it's awfully annoying.

The man looks at him measuringly _._ His eyes are very, very blue and there is a weight in his gaze that makes Mycroft fidget. (He never fidgets! This is ridiculous!)

“Special ops,” explains the man at length (Mycroft blinks because _of course; and yet..._ ) and then he quickly asks: “Where should I look then?”

Mycroft tilts his head.

“Does it like the cold?” he asks, expecting a quick 'Yes' and ready to offer suggestions based on that.

The American blinks in surprise, as if the simple question hadn't even occurred to him and Mycroft looks heavenwards because seriously? What was he doing in the snow then?

“No,” the man answers, with the look of someone who's feeling exceptionally foolish. (Mycroft is an expert at putting that look on people's faces.) It's his turn to fidget under Mycroft's incredibly flat glare and the child feels a little vindicated.

“Mrs. Callridge grows orchids,” he says after thinking for a moment.

The man doesn't seem to grasp the implications, so Mycroft gives a put-upon sigh and explains: “They need warmer temperatures and regulated levels of humidity, so she had a greenhouse installed. Over there, beyond the small grove that hides the church from here."

The man narrows his eyes, then swings his arm around and checks something on his odd, bulky wristwatch.

No, not a watch, Mycroft scolds himself at once, _obviously_ not. It might _look_ like a wristwatch (though really it's more like a leather wristband), but its function is obviously not just to tell the time. The man is looking at it almost expectantly, which means--

“Is the creature within range?” the child inquires.

“What?” The American is back to staring at him and Mycroft almost can't suppress his grin. He gestures at the not-wristband (because he doesn't know what it's called and refuses to admit it) and the man shakes his head in amazement, his lips curving up in a reluctant smile.

“Yeah. It… yeah. The greenhouse seems like a good bet. Thanks.”

The man shoots a last, lingering glance at Mycroft as he trots down the lane. It is the kind of look that says 'I'll keep an eye on you'. Mycroft is quite pleased: the man was _definitely_ impressed.


	2. Christmas Day, 1985

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the unusual sound of a stranger's voice in the kitchen that draws Mycroft out of the refuge of his room on Christmas Day.

Mycroft has spent the last few months living among goldfish. It's an awfully dissatisfactory situation, with no end or relief in sight.

Harrow was supposed to be a haven of great minds (albeit young ones), the place where the best and brightest of his generation gather in preparation for their future successes (whatever they might be; Mycroft himself hasn't yet selected what field he will excel in).

If his schoolmates are, indeed, the best and brightest his generation has to offer, Mycroft can only despair. He might have to revise his opinion of his baby brother's intelligence. Clearly, Sherlock isn't slow – not compared to anyone but Mycroft himself.

Christmas holidays aren't as much of a relief as he'd hoped. His parents are wonderfully loving, of course, but they just don't _understand_. They don't know what it's like to be him – they have no idea of how frustrating it is to live among people who are slow, slow, _slow_. They _laugh_ at his complaints. It's intolerable.

He spends most of his time locked up in his room, reading. Hobbes and Locke are far better company than anyone Harrow had to offer, including the teachers, and Machiavelli is far more interesting than anything on the ridiculously childish reading list he was given.

(Sherlock is working his way through _that_. It keeps him marginally less noisy than usual, which is all to the good, because he is a whiner when he isn't suitably occupied and Mycroft doesn't have the patience to deal with the five-years-old nuisance. The child has a brand new chemistry set, surely he can keep himself entertained?)

It's the unusual sound of a stranger's voice in the kitchen that draws him out of his refuge on Christmas Day.

The man sitting at Mummy's table is good-looking in a Hollywood-style way, dressed oddly (there's a bulky, dark coat thrown over a chair and he's actually showing his suspenders over his blue shirt, does he have no taste?) and... vaguely familiar.

Mycroft isn't sure why at first (it's been years, and it wasn't that memorable a meeting in the first place, he reassures himself) but the American accent helps to jolt his memory, which is impeccable by the way, and before the adults register his presence he has recalled the stranger looking for an escaped experiment in Mummy's garden. (A stranger, he further notices, that has not changed in the least in the intervening years. But perhaps it wasn't so long ago after all.)

Mycroft has had the time to think on it and knows the man is not 'special ops'. Not really. That is just a convenient excuse, because it supposedly explains a lot and, more importantly, people aren't inclined to question it.

Mycroft isn't 'people'.

The 'unconventional tactics, techniques, and modes of employment' part he can believe, and he saw the 'specially trained and equipped' part himself (he has found nothing remotely like the not-wristwatch detector for sale, more's the pity) but he still isn't sure the man is really military (his uniform's all wrong, and so's his attitude, despite the training obvious in his movements and reactions) and he is no longer so foolish as to believe a 'special operative' (an American one, furthermore) would be tracking down an escaped experiment in Britain – _alone_ at that (they move in squads for a reason!).

That all leaves him with a lot of ananswered questions about the American; questions that had been tabled by lack of any possible source of information, and later by growing disinterest, but are now returning prominently to Mycroft's attention.

The man is offering Mummy some ludicrously corny compliment he must have found in a TV screenplay (then again, the man is American) and Mummy... giggles at him. She actually _giggles_ and Mycroft can only gape. Is she blushing? She is. This is ridiculous.

“Oh, Mycroft!” she says, spotting him and he forces himself to recover. “Come greet your guest!”

The American's gaze is sharp on him, despite his warm, easy smile.

“Did you ever find it?” Mycroft asks casually before the man can say anything, making his way into the kitchen.

This kind of off-hand comment usually unsettles his interlocutors very satisfyingly (even Mummy is preplexed), but the man isn't even startled. He smiles knowingly, as if Mycroft has done something clever, but pretty much expected.

Mycroft scowls.

“Jack Harkness,” the man introduces himself, smiling brilliantly with his white, perfect teeth. (And now Mummy turns to blink at him, her confusion switching targets.) Mycroft is passingly pleased that the American is offering him his hand like to an adult – he despises being treated like a child – but it doesn't offset the irritation he feels (apart from anything else, the man isn't answering the question!).

Nor does it stave off the apprehensiveness.

Something about how well the man has reacted to Mycroft's… uniqueness, is raising alarm bells in the pre-teen's mind, now that he is older and more mature and understands the world a little better.

The American had been suspicious of Mycroft's intelligence, but not unnerved by it, and once he'd ascertained that the child before him was indeed uncommonly clever, he'd handled the meeting with remarkable ease.

At nine, Mycroft had been delighted at the man's keen interest (that was a compliment and no mistake!); at twelve, he realizes that his presence here is somewhat ominous (truthfully, there is something unnerving in the man himself) and he is almost scared. He is fiercely glad that Sherlock seems to have run away on an 'exploration' again (and, more distantly, that it seems to be Father's turn to track him down in snow and mud and Lord knows what else).

He has, long ago, come to the conclusion that the man had to be working for some sort of secret organization (mostly because of what the man hadn't said). His coming here might well indicate that said secret organization has an unsolicited, and definitely unwelcome, interest in Mycroft.

It sounds fanciful, yes, but Father is always encouraging him to trust his own conclusions and not to eliminate any possibility only because most people would discard it (Mycroft's not 'most people', after all).

That he is having difficulties drawing conclusions about this man, is souring his mood even further. His deductive skills are _good_ and he trains them diligently; he should be able to tell a lot more about this Jack Harkness – he can about everybody else – so why can't he?

“Why are you here?” he asks bluntly. It's impolite, but Mycroft is unsettled enough not to care.

“Oh, just checking up on you,” Jack Harkness says, smiling guilessly.

Mycroft's scowl deepens: “That would imply both that I am in need of assistance or protection, and that a relationship of some sort exists between us, neither of which is true,” he says in his most snottish tone (the one that drives his teachers mad, and pushes them to bouts of childish pettiness because they can't truly object rationally, since Mycroft is always right).

Mummy is frowning now. “I was under the impression that you knew my son rather well,” she says, eyes gone sharp like they rarely do.

“We met _once_ ,” says Mycroft, tense and annoyed. “Three _years_ ago.”

“Perhaps it's time for you to go,” she says frostily a heartbit later, getting to her feet.

It's clear that the American had somehow fudged the details of their acquaintance (how? He must be good if he's fooled Mummy…) and now she is quickly reclassifying him into the 'threat' category. (There will be tedious explanations to give later.) The atmosphere has changed and this makes Mycroft feel marginally better.

The man backs down at once (further proof that his presence isn't sanctioned by the Governement, Mycroft deduces, at least not officially), hands up in a harmless conciliatory gesture and casual smile at the ready to make them at ease, but neither Holmes is pacified.

“I did not mean to intrude,” the man says casually, piciking up his coat with an amiable smile that cannot hide his slight frustration, not from someone as observant as Mycroft. “It's just standard procedure.”

Mycroft is too smart not to understand the implications. Mummy, too, has gone rigid by his side, her arm sliding protectively over his shoulder. For once, the usually unwanted contact doesn't bother him in the least.

“I'll be around,” Jack Harkness says easily. “Take care of yourself, my boy.”

“Don't bother,” Mycroft says with icy coldness. “I will not be drafted in your program.”

It is a gamble that has Mummy's arm tighten around him, but it elicits a twitching reaction from the American (quickly hidden behind his too-brilliant smile) and Mycroft feels the tiniest bit triumphant. (There is also a hint of approval in the man's eyes, perhaps even admiration, just as quickly stifled. Mycroft will think on this later.)

The man smiles some more as he leaves, but doesn't actually promise anything and Mycroft swears, there and then, that the only way he'll ever join a secret organization is as its leader. He won't let anyone treat his intellect like a mere _resource_. He is no-one's _tool_ and never will be.

He knows the path he'll take now.

He will become... untouchable. So necessary, and so powerful, that nobody will ever be a threat to him. Or Sherlock. Ever. Again.


	3. Christmas Day, 1988

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack Harkness throws himself on a chair as if he'd been invited and relaxes back as if he was welcome.

Mycroft is spending Christmas Day alone and he seems to be the only person in the world who does not consider this a problem.

He is, in fact, completely and utterly indifferent about it; he is not religious after all (no rational man could be, he feels) and he sees no reason why spending this particular day alone should be worse than spending yesterday or tomorrow in such a fashion. (Or why anyone should feel entitled to comment on how _he_ spends Christmas, for that matter.) Yet even Mummy is upset.

She wanted him to take a plane as soon as his holidays started and join them in Vancouver, where they are spending the festivities again (Mummy was invited to the the World Exposition on Transportation and Communication of two years past because of her book on the dynamics of combustion and Father fell in love with the Canadian city, much to Mycroft's bafflement – there is nothing there that isn't _better_ in London!) but Mycroft flat out refused.

College might only be marginally more challenging than high school, but it does require a tad more hard work, especially for a fifteen-years-old planning to graduate in less than a year. He needs to study and has a number of papers due and most importantly, he does not wish to be roped in yet another of Sherlock's increasingly complex 'pirates' games.

(It isn't that he dislikes indulging the child, although of course, Mycroft plays a Commodore in His Majesty's Navy rather than a pirate, as is only proper; it's that he feels it is his duty, as the eldest, to guide his younger brother towards less childish pursuits now that the time to consider his future with a degree of seriousness is drawing ever closer – Lord knows their parents won't, they can barely cope with Sherlock's _present;_ so someone needs to, before the choice is made _for_ Sherlock. After all, his brother can hardly expect piracy to be a real career choice!)

Jack Harkness showing up out of the blue throws his plans in dismaying disarray.

It takes Mycroft very little time to recognize him this time, because it might have been years, but the slight fear the man had elicited has remained at the back of Mycroft's mind all along.

(Besides, the man is virtually unchanged. How is it even possible?)

He hasn't thought of the American except occasionally, but he has kept the knowledge of his existence, and of his awareness of Mycroft's existence, in mind.

He knows his parents have, too. Mummy and Father have maintained contacts they might otherwise have let slide as they retire to an ever more private life, with people that might be of help in protecting their children from that kind of interest. He himself has made choices, in his studies and future career path, that might not have attracted him were he not wary of Jack Harkness' secret organization.

It has not proved necessary (yet), but Mycroft isn't one for just dismissing even a potentially imaginary threat.

(More so because Jack Harkness doesn't seem to exist. Mycroft checked. As thoroughly as possible. Repeatedly. Either the American is using an alias – which is a possibility – or… his organization is very, very good. Also possible. Both scenarios are worrisome.)

“Not here to recruit you!” Harkness forestalls with an easy laugh.

Mycroft is unnerved by the 'yet' he can hear in the sentence, and even more by how easily this man reads him (when his own parents can't). He focuses on his irritation to keep himself calm; it's been years (again) since the American's last visit, why show up now that Mycroft is so busy? And why is he calling so late in the evening? It's plain rude, it is.

Jack Harkness throws himself on a chair as if he'd been invited and relaxes back as if he was welcome.

“Merry Christmas!” he says blithely and it irritates Mycroft even more.

“Merry Christmas,” he replies frostily. “What do you want?”

“I thought I could take you out tonight,” the man says as if it was a reasonable proposition.

Mycroft flat out refuses of course, and when that doesn't work, he protests, then argues, complains, refutes, raises objections (very reasonable ones, too, and well-formed) and generally opposes Harkness' cajoling with all his strength. He attempts to reason, persuade, even raise a fuss (it seems to work well for Sherlock... it was worth a try) and otherwise express his dissent.

To his slight shock, nothing seems to work. For the first times in years, Mycroft is utterly unable to have his own way. He gets effectively _ignored_. This man is infuriating.

Mycroft is baffled, slightly unnerved, and the tiniest bit admiring. He needs to learn how to do that – act entitled so naturally that everybody will fall in line despite themselves, _without_ even eliciting resentment, mind – but before that, he needs to learn how to counter it or handle it or oppose it successfully or _something_.

Jack Harkness has decided to take Mycroft out into London, among the invetered revellers determined to avoid cold turkey and awkward family reconnections by means of too-loud music, too much alcohol and too many strangers rather than by doing something useful, and nothing sways him from his purpose. The man is like a force of nature, except not, because he is not powerful or striking in any way except for his irritating handsomness.

Mycroft insists with his protests, of course. He isn't inclined to that kind of so-called merrymaking even on the best of days (“Ah, you're such a young fogey!”) and right now, he has too much to do (“All work and no play...!” Harkness sing-songs) and besides he is too young (“You're going to wake up forty and regret skipping adolescence, mark my word...”), what is the man even thinking, really?

(Mycroft has his suspicions about what the man is up to. He's trying to decide how to react. To his bafflement, it seems as if it doesn't matter what he decides; he might well not be given a choice.)

He tries irritation, griping, remonstrations (“Dull as dishwater!” accuses Harkness gayly, pushing him towards the wardrobe) criticising the man's brainpower (“I don't see how giving you some street smarts is foolish, kid!” he counters, rooting among his belts), but in the end, Mycroft's resistance is steadily losing ground simply because he is _bewildered_.

Harkness is systematically _disregarding_ anything he says! He needs to practice how to handle this kind of situations and turn them to his advantage, because this feeling of hapelessness is intolerable.

He finds himself bundled into too-casual clothes (and how dares Harkness bemoan Mycroft's 'sober and outdated' style, there is _nothing_ wrong with sweater vests, and anyway, the man is wearing his grandfather's World War II coat! There is no reason to laugh himself silly when Mycroft points this out, either!) and out into the greyish cold of London while still protesting (ineffectually. He needs to practice his complaints as well).

Mycroft glares at the dull collections of sparkly lights and forced cheer he is surrounded by. Harkness is taking him _clubbing_ , which is ludicrous for so many reasons it takes a while to list them all. (Mycroft knows exactly how long, because he _has_ listed them, with appropriate level of detail. It has not swayed the man in the least.)

“I'm not old enough to drink,” he points out (again).

“You aren't here to _drink_ , merely to learn _about_ drinking,” Harkness says with the kind of logic Sherlock might try on his dimmest teachers. The amused patience with which he regards Mycroft is maddening.

“It's pointless,” he complains (again), “and boring.”

But Harkness doesn't pay him any mind and simply drags him to yet another hellhole, loud with awful music (Mycroft is thinking longingly of his recordings – Rossini, Ravel; perhaps some Bizet… _as soon as he gets home,_ he promises himself).

Harkness shines that ridiculous smile of his at him (and at anyone else within reach, thus providing Mycroft with a panoply of shades of pleased-blushing-intrigued-embarrassed-delighted reactions to blatant flirting, which is marginally interesting) and proceeds to educate him on the many forms of alcoholic beverages available in modern society and how to judge their quality (“If someone buys you a drink, it might as well be a good one, kid!”) and teaches him how to pretend he's drinking while not being affected by the alcohol (“Good for info gathering,” he says with a charming smile - and Mycroft rolls his eyes because _seriously?_ ) and how to play the drunk (“What makes you think I'll ever do such an undignified thing?” asks Mycroft, but his disdain is met with a cheerful: “Oh, you never know!”).

It is boring. But it is not entirely pointless.

Mycroft might have been influenced in his choice of path, but he has found that he likes it. The art and science of governing a nation is an excellent playing field for his keen mind (not that he is anywhere near the actual part of it, _yet;_ but it is just a matter of time).

Politics, however, has the unfortunate drawback of dealing with people. And people, he has realized with some distaste, regularly engage in various forms of social interactions, of whose nuances he needs extensive knowledge.

There is no denying that alcohol is often a conspicuous component of such dynamic sequences of social actions at many levels and he had feared that he would eventually resign himself to a study of all alcohol-related social practices, once his age would no longer protect him from the tediousness of it, lest he finds himself fumbling unconvincing explanations about his uncommon ignorance of the matter.

Thanks to Harkness, pub crawling with a bunch of moronic college students is no longer a necessity. He can safely eschew gatherings where drinking is the only means of socialization. The presence of alcohol in a social setting will no longer put him at risk of being excluded against his will...

In short, tonight will help him, in the future, mingle and fit in whenever he needs to, without requiring any more effort on his part.

This aspect of his social education is covered, and it is, admittedly, a relief. Harkness has made sure he knows everything he needs to know about this kind of… entertainment. All in one night. That's efficiency Mycroft can appreciate.

He doesn't remember going home that night (morning?), but Harkness kept him safe and Mycroft reluctantly, grudgingly, starts to consider the possibility that the man might be at least partially trustworthy.


	4. Christmas Day, 1991

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft is very good with patterns. Consequently, his fourth meeting with Jack Harkness isn't a surprise at all. (Although it is pleasing to be proven right, even when he anticipated it.)

It becomes a pattern.

(Rather, it was always a pattern, but Mycroft has only now recognized it. That's understandable however: patterns emerge from the accumulation of data after all.)

Mycroft is very good at patterns, naturally, but he thinks even an idiot could work this one out. (So long as this year's observations confirm his hypothesis...)

Jack Harkness 'checks up on him' on Christmas Day every three years, without fail. Not a day before, not a day after. Mycroft is not particularly impressed by the suppposed symbolism (he really does not see the point of Christmas) but the regularity has its advantages.

(In years to come, Jack will always deny that there was any kind of pattern to his visits. He has lived too long, seen too much, to believe in patterns – patterns are just the frightened Humans' way to put imaginary restraints on the universe they can't control. He goes to visit Mycroft when he feels like it and if it always happens to be Christmas, well, it's because that's when it's easiest to get free time!

Mycroft knows better than that. Harkness has many intriguing qualities, good qualities even, but he's still as blind as most people. There _is_ a pattern, one the man's been following, it seems, without realizing it. Sad, but quite common.)

Consequently, his fourth meeting with Jack Harkness isn't a surprise at all. (Although it is pleasing to be proven right, even when he anticipated it.)

Mycroft is quite ready for it. He knows the pattern now, knows what to expect of it, and what he wants to do about it. (He has practiced in preparation for this). There is absolutely no way the man will bully him into some absurd venture today; for all that it might prove useful in the end, like last time, Mycroft is not inclined to indulge the man's plans in any way. He is quite determined that he will not leave his room today and nothing will sway him.

Harkness (good-looking and relaxed and completely unchanged from all those years ago, which is unnerving in and of itself) smiles widely, unfazed: “That's alright. I can teach you the basics of sex right here in your bedroom.”

Mycroft sputters and almost chokes on his own shock, but he is in too much of a stupor to really protest.

At least until Harkness – Jack – starts undressing him. For God's sake, his parents are downstairs!

Of course, his parents are locked in a screaming row with Sherlock, who has been at boarding school for a mere three months (save for the suspension he earned for that... episode, with the frogs and the sockets – experiment indeed! Mycroft needs to have a word with him about proper venues for research) and is already fed up with it and quite determined to scream his way out of going back.

(School, Mycroft knows, does not agree with his brother. That he is in an advanced program doesn't seem to help any. Mycroft can sympathize – boredom plagued him throughout high school too – but Sherlock's drama is pushing him perilously close to the end of his rope. It's not that Mycroft doesn't understand how hard it is to be a genius pre-teen, and yes, indeed, their parents are idiots, albeit loving ones – but does his brother have to be so dramatic about it?)

The fact remains that, even distracted, his parents should be a clear deterrent for a-- a liaison, shouldn't they?

But Jack doesn't seem to care one whit. (And maybe, just maybe, Mycroft isn't protesting as much as he probably should. Maybe, just maybe, he is intrigued by the proposition. He sort of trusts that Jack would let him be if he said 'no' more clearly, but… well. He doesn't.)

Mycroft only offers a token protest by claiming that sex is boring and _distasteful_ (which, in his admittedly very limited experience, it is).

Jack gives him a long, measuring look, then declares matter-of-factly: “That means you're doing it wrong.”

Mycroft bristles – if there is one thing he simply can't stand, it is the thought of less than excelling at something – and, well, framed in the context of a lesson... it isn't altogether too different from studying anatomy, is it?

(He will never admit that he's slightly panicky, not even to himself; but, well. He is.)

Jack knows what he's about, though. For all that he touches on the health concerns and the safe-sane-consensual discussion (which Mycroft already knew, thank you very much, he is no idiot), there is nothing clinical about his actions _at all_. He sets about seducing Mycroft with skill, and intent, and unexpected playfulness, and by the end of the encounter, the genius has to admit – in the privacy of his mind, never out loud – that perhaps the man had a point. He was doing it wrong.

They have only the one day, as usual, but his education is certainly comprehensive. Far from boring. And not at all distasteful.

And for once, the thought of possibly needing a refresher course now and then is not upsetting...


	5. Christmas Day, 1994

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft wasn't exactly informed of the existence of aliens. He was simply allowed to work himself into a position where deducing the truth was so easy as to be inevitable.

Three years later, Mycroft is awaiting Christmas Day with unbecoming impatience. He almost snaps at Harkness for being late (but thankfully retains enough control not to).

Mycroft's horizons have been unpleasantly broadened as of late. The universe is, if not vaster than he had previously known, certainly more populated.

He would be less bothered by the knowledge if he wasn't too intelligent to believe that a closed borders policy could ever possibly work.

Aliens aren't just real. They are to be interacted with.

This is adding a level of complexity he could do without to his already extremely complex and well-planned efforts to entrench himself adequately in the administration and control of his nation's internal and external affairs (never mind that he is perfectly capable of handling the complication – he is a genius after all: but he could do without the added stress).

Really, were common immigrants and terrorists not enough? He did not need to be informed about the presence of various _aliens_ on _his_ planet. (Well. He wasn't informed, per se. He was simply allowed to work himself into a position where deducing the truth was so easy as to be inevitable.)

Of course, he doesn't _know_ much – there is an unsurprising lack of concrete information to be had on the topic, not that Mycroft disapproves, mind; all his knowledge is actually just suppositions. He has his deductions, very detailed conclusions he can draw quite easily, and they are obviously right, but…

Somehow, he knows that Jack Harkness has the answers he wants.

(It makes a disturbing amount of sense, after all.)

He trusts Jack. He's known him all his life--

(Four days, he reminds himself with slight shock. Four days are _not_ a lifetime. Four days are barely enough to qualify him as an acquaintance. And yet… and yet.)

He needs answers.

(He _needs_ answers, it's an almost physical ache. His deductions are not enough. Even though they are quite detailed and, of course, right.)

He is definitely impatient for Christmas Day to arrive.

Harkness is surprisingly cagey. (Or maybe not so surprisingly. The man never changes, it's as if time has no grip on him – he can't be entirely human; clearly he is long experienced in secrecy, concealment and misdirection.) There is a lot of 'What do you think?' and 'Isn't it obvious?' and 'Oh, you know,' but very few answers in the conversation Mycroft is attempting to have.

He is so frustrated he is almost tempted to get up from his desk and _pace_.

The only saving grace is that he can tell Jack, too, is growing nervous, feeling cornered, exasperated, perhaps even annoyed: even with how good the man is at masking his expressions it is plain to see if one can _observe_. Mycroft can be thoroughly stubborn if it's worth it and is perfectly willing to share his frustration with the infuriating man, so he keeps pushing.

“You seem to know all you need to know already,” says Harkness pointedly when Mycroft has almost (almost) pushed him far enough.

“I don't,” he counters, finding his calm as his opponent loses his.

“Well, I don't know what you want from me!... If it's proof you're after I'm not--”

“I need an explanation that accounts for all the facts.” Mycroft's words are clipped. “Not necessarily one supported by instantly visible evidence, but at least somewhat coherent. Can you provide it?”

The man smiles easily. “Sure. But only if you let me buy you a drink afterwards.” He even winks. He's _good_.

Mycroft is far from stupid however and has long since deduced that there has to be a way to control who knows, since it'd be impossible to control their tongues. Killing every witness is Hollywood-style nonsense, of course: a terribly impractical solution. Memory modification is the likeliest option.

Ironic that it was Jack himself who taught him how to pretend he's drinking... (Pity he can't taste the whiskey, though. He can tell it's good quality.)

Once the changeless man concedes defeat, Mycroft relaxes enough (he has a source of information now, a relatively trustworthy one: the uncertain ground has turned into a simple field of study – everything is under control again) to start offering his own conclusions as facts.

The man's twitching reactions confirm them one by one. Mycroft doesn't bother to hide how pleased he is. Except for…

“That creature you were looking for, that day in Mummy's garden. Was it alien?”

Jack drains his glass. “Yes.”

Mycroft's face darken and he firms his lips.

Harkness regards him thoughtfully for a long moment. “I don't understand why you're so upset,” he says eventually.

“I was wrong all along!” says Mycroft, his mood sour. How is that not upsetting?

“Not wrong. Just… misinformed. And impressive as all hell.”

Harkness is sincere, but Mycroft is only partially mollified.

Also, he can't help but notice that the man has not, in fact, answered most of his questions (just the ones he couldn't avoid), or even confirmed anything Mycroft didn't already know (except for a few relatively minor details). Not really. He's letting Mycroft show off (which, yes, he likes to do, he'll admit that much) so he doesn't have to speak too much himself. It is a practice Mycroft himself is very familiar with and uses liberally, but having it turned against himself is profoundly irritating.

That man is infuriating.


	6. Christmas Day, 1997

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the right Christmas Day, Mycroft is smoking in Mummy's garden while he waits.

After their last meeting, Mycroft came to the conclusion that if Harkness will not give him any more answers, he will have to find them himself. Tedious, but far from difficult at this point.

It does not take long before he stumbles upon mentions of the Torchwood Institute. It takes even less to track down or deduce enough information to know more about that organization than most Torchwood employees do.

It takes considerably longer than he is initially prepared to wait before he can confront Harkness about it, (and about the disturbing conclusions he has drawn about the man's interest in Mycroft himself), but the three years before the next Christmas Day meeting are well spent.

He has to be careful in his inquiries – very, very careful: people have a distressing tendency to disappear when they get too close to the truth of that particular organization.

It is a pleasant challenge, a way to distract himself from the stressful managing of two royal divorces, the widening of EU borders, the peace talks in the Balkans, the uproar about Roslin Institute's research, the _situation_ with Scotland's Parliament and Tony Blair's campaign.

(Or rather, the stressful managing of the idiots who are supposed to handle those things, but obviously can't be trusted to – if they but did what Mycroft _suggests_ without having to be led through every baby step, the nation would be much better off, that's for sure. He isn't yet at the stage where he can afford to point this out, however. Influence is built on goodwill and all that.)

Most of his time is taken up by the administrative position he is working in officially, and the many other positions he is working in (or assisting with) unofficially; most of his attention is devoted to consolidate his allies and secure the niche he has carved for himself in the government (and avoid being thrust into the limelight, but that at least is easy, since most other politicians want exactly that).

Governing a nation without governing a nation might just be the ultimate thrill and he is _so close_.

(It's a pity his brother can't find the same satisfaction in politics; but alas, he has accepted that they are _different_. He just wishes Sherlock would find the same satisfaction in _something_ ; he has the brain of a philosopher or a scientist, yet he doesn't seem inclined to make any use of it. The waste of it bothers Mycroft more than the accounting imbalances he systematically uncovers and… deals with.)

Alien business is just a side concern for Mycroft, in the end – but he does compile a comprehensive mental dossier about Torchwood; if nothing else, for the challenge of it. They have a solid tradition of secrecy, after all, that makes them marginally difficult to pin down; but he is far too smart for them to hide anything from him.

His research eventually leads him to a well-defined conclusion.

He does _not_ like Torchwood.

Oh, their goals are sound enough (protecting one's home, whatever the definition of it, is only sensible), if a bit distastefully phrased (all those references to the superiority of the human race – have these people learned nothing from history?) but Yvonne Hartman is an idiot of dangerous proportions (Mycroft has no patience for fanatics): it is all very well to serve Queen and Country to the bitter end, but arrogance and recklessness do not go well together (his own brother is quite the example of this).

Their near-sighted attitude towards alien technology is especially pathetic – what is the point of stealing and reverse engineering anything if it is not then made available to the rest of the world? Apart from the obvious, generalized advantages (...but Torchwood was never about  _bettering_ human lives, after all, was it?) there is the lost opportunity. Mycroft could _use_ the royalties from such sales, the budget is always lacking for all that needs to be done and expenditure reviews are any administrator's nightmare, even if he has long ago worked out how to get anything he wishes approved.

Really, Mycroft could do such a _better_ job at running Torchwood.

(He toys with the idea; but ultimately, he prefers the challenge of gently guiding an entire nation exactly where he wants it to go, and balancing his influence over the rest of the world to his country's benefit. He is _so close_ to his goal. A simple Institute, no matter how peculiar, cannot compare.)

(They're servants of the British Empire by charter, besides. One day, they'll answer to him anyway.)

On the right Christmas Day, Mycroft is smoking in Mummy's garden while he waits.

(Sherlock is throwing an overly dramatic tantrum that involves refusing to come home to 'people who understand so very little', and probably spending the day playing his violin for pennies by the side of the road or something equally foolish, in a fit of immature, independence-seeking idiocy – Sherlock took to adolescence with a vengeance from the start and now, after a few years, has this kind of melodramatic rebellious posturing down to an art form – so Mycroft has made the effort to be at his parents' for the festivities, despite the demands of his job; it's unbelievably expensive in terms of phone calls, but it makes Mummy feel better.)

He would prefer to be elsewhere, but he knows Harkness will find him anywhere and why not here, where it all began? There is some poetry in it.

The man does not disappoint.

“Those are bad for you,” he comments with a smile, drawing his bulky vintage coat around himself to sit beside Mycroft, who hadn't noticed his arrival until he spoke but refuses to show it bothers him.

He also refuses to acknowledge Harkness' light scolding. The man has no business criticizing his choice of vice. Nor will he admit the man's rich baritone sends pleasant shivers down his back. It's irrelevant anyway.

“Why isn't Torchwood after me?” Mycroft asks far too bluntly. (Jack has a way of getting under his skin like no-one else in the world. It is only bearable because he has noticed that he can affect Jack in turn.)

There is a stretched silence before Jack says tightly: “They are under the impression that I'm grooming you.”

Mycroft nods thoughtfully – as always, he was right; suspicions grown over years have been confirmed in one sentence; nothing more needs saying – but Jack seems anxious to explain himself, even if it's not necessary.

“I didn't want you in their clutches – I still don't – but we're supposed to report minds like yours, and I knew you'd attract attention, it was inevitable, so I… It was the only way I could think of!” He runs a hand through his dark hair, eliciting a coolly raised eyebrow. “It wasn't too suspicious, t's not the first time I keep an eye on a kid from a distance-- never mind; that's not important, I never interact with her. It's just...”

He sighs and fidgets, readjusting the coat around himself. “They would have ruined your life,” he says miserably, as if Mycroft didn't know. “That's pretty much the thing they're best at. You… you were so amazing. This slip of a kid, so clearly a genius – you deduced so much without knowing that aliens even exist… I didn't want them to get their hands on you.”

Mycroft doesn't need any explanation. He can figure most of it out by himself. He would _prefer_ to figure it out himself (without the pointlessly sentimental spin, if you please).

“Sherlock?” he asks only (and he is too visibly tense, but it is his brother, and it is the one thing he can't just guess, and he needs to know...)

Jack shakes his head frantically: “I lied – reported him as 'unstable'. His behaviour… ah…” He shrugs with some delicacy. “You know.”

Mycroft nods, because he knows – oh, he knows. “Good,” he says simply.

It is enough. It _should be_ enough – Mycroft needs nothing more, he _doesn't want_ aything more, belabouring the point is a waste of time – but Jack insists and it's uncomfortable and superfluous but Mycroft can't just turn his hearing off and he also can't decide if the man wants something from him, and if he does, what, and it is _awkward_. (He can't stand being uncertain.)

(Why doesn't the man just leave well enough alone? Mycroft _understands_ , nothing else needs saying.)

“I didn't know how to protect you,” insists Jack softly, almost pleadingly. “Keeping an eye on you myself was the best compromise I could come up with.” He swallows. “Still is.”

It is not a surprise, of course.

(Mycroft had deduced it all on his own. It is a very logical, economic solution, rather elegant all in all...)

It is a staggering surprise.

( _Protect you_ , he said. Why would the man do this? Do such a thing, for _him_? Maybe he'd have done it for any child, of course, maybe it isn't about Mycroft at all, except that Mycroft is the child he has been protecting and he _said –_ or as good as - that he's a special case and Mycroft can't just disregard this…)

In one of his rare episodes of inability to analyse and filter his emotions quickly, Mycroft finds himself on the verge of hyperventilating in Mummy's garden.

(He'll wonder later what about Jack Harkness provoked this – why it is that Jack Harkness can discomfit him so, when no-one else can; first he must recover his mind's customary systematic efficiency and deal with himself.)

Mycroft feels something he isn't entirely sure he can identify and he needs to, he needs to _think;_ frame every aspect of this in understandable terms – he needs to freeze the world until he can properly lable the emotions he is being confronted with, evaluate their utility, and box everything neatly away as is only commonsense to do, because to allow _feelings_ to remain unruly is not a sensible option. (Why didn't the man just let this go? Mycroft only needed confirmation of his suspicion, not-- _this_!)

He is grateful confused triumphant wary vindicated unnerved indignant hopeful satisfied astonished irritated and he _doesn't like it_ (he doesn't _do_ feelings, not like this, not for this long – feelings are pointless, feelings are bothersome, the fly in the ointment, grit on the lenses of the instrument; emotion gets in the way of rational thinking) but that's alright, he merely needs the time to categorize, analyze, accept: he just needs a moment to _think_ , then he'll be able to discard anything that it would not be useful to further express, suppressing and ignoring what has no reason to influence him; he just needs to _think_.

He sits very still, forcing himself to examine the confirmation of all his hypotheses on the topic with ruthless rationality, to properly engage his cognitive facilities in the evaluation of his relationship with Jack Harkness – it's taking longer than it should, but once he has, he'll be in control again, Mycroft never lets himself be boggled down by such nonsense, he always keeps himself sufficiently distant.

(They call him icy, or granitic, or insensible, but in truth he is simply rational: even with Mummy, and Father – even with _Sherlock_ – he doesn't let emotion cloud his judgement, because there is no point. Caring is not an advantage).

(Except that there is the possibility that the man cares for _him_ and he isn't sure how to react to this.)

He hates that it is taking effort to keep this contained maelstrom in check while he tames it – he is usually much better than this at dealing with his own emotional responses – and he hates that Harkness is witnessing this – he does not, as a rule, display any emotion for others to see unless he has consciously decided that it is socially required to do so: why should this be any different? (Why should Jack – who is not even family, who is barely an aquaintance – be any different?)

(He always is.)

(It's infuriating – caring is not an advantage.)

He'll have to get over this somehow, obviously, but, but… but...

He smokes the rest of his cigarette in silence, and Jack lets him.


	7. Christmas Day, 2000

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harkness is calm, relaxed even; it's like he's enjoying himself. “You should take this easy. It might even be fun.”  
> “We're tied up.”  
> “There is a lot of fun to be had with this kind of setup, if you're of a mind to,” replies Jack unfazed and Mycroft just about bangs his head against the wall.

All things considered, it is perhaps odd that Mycroft gets to age 27 and a few months before he is kidnapped by aliens.

(It still discombobulates him.)

“This is all your fault,” he grumbles in a rare display of childishness, elbowing the man he is tied back to back with. He's chained up in a (thankfully empty) stainless steel tank that still smells horribly strongly of acridic, low-quality wine, however, so he decides he is entitled to childishness.

“Can't really argue with that,” concedes Harkness with – Mycroft is sure, even if he can't see him – one of his dazzling smiles.

(Brilliant teeth and warm eyes will do him no good this time. Mycroft has already decided that good sex will not excuse this mess, and he is _perfectly_ able to suppress any reaction besides the icy disapproval the man deserves, thank you very much.)

“I can't believe this is happening to me.” (This is really more Sherlock's area – Mycroft has never had that streak of reckless foolishness in him. Consequently, he is not well-equipped to cope with the situation and this is adding to his irritation steadily.)

He tugs at his chains again, ineffectually. (At a different angle than any earlier attempts, of course, in the hope of stumbling on a useful one. Why has he never learned to break out of manacles? It is obviously an unacceptable hole in his education.)

“What, never been kidnapped by aliens before?” asks Jack with laughter in his voice – which does things to Mycroft that not all the medical texts he's read can truly explain. (Nothing can truly explain Mycroft's odd reactions to a man that, when it comes right down to it, he barely knows. But by now, he's used to it.)

(It doesn't mean he will let Jack off the hook. The chains are _digging in his wrists_. No amount of sex can make up for this.)

Harkness is calm, relaxed even; it's like he's enjoying himself. “You should take this easy. It might even be fun.”

“We're tied up.”

“There is a lot of fun to be had with this kind of setup, if you're of a mind to,” replies Jack unfazed and Mycroft just about bangs his head against the wall.

“Relax, kid. Think of it as hands-on experience. Will look good on your C.V. Well, it would, if you could tell anyone about this, is what I mean.”

“My C.V. is excellent,” replies Mycroft testily, “and does not need anything like _this_ added to it. _”_

“It's always good to have some… ah... hold on...”

The man is wriggling awfully now – the pull on the chains is turning rather painful – and Mycroft hopes he is working on freeing them because if he is not, God help him, he'll tear him a new hide, and what is taking him so long, anyway, surely he is trained for this sort of things?

“...Yes!… practical experience,” Jack concludes with a wrench that Mycroft interprets as gaining a more favourable position to work on the shackles.

“I don't do legwork,” sniffs Mycroft disdainfully, moving slightly in the way he calculates will help Harkness' efforts the most. “I have minions for this sort of things!”

“No you don't.”

“Well, I will. One day. Soon.” It has just become a priority goal of his, after all.

“Oh, come on. This isn't so bad, really.”

“It's been _two hours_ ,” says Mycroft through gritted teeth – though admittedly they have only been in this tank for twenty minutes; before that there was an awfully bumpy ride in an obviously stolen car, however, which wasn't much better.

He is cold, he is uncomfortable, his nose is saturated with the acridic smell permeating everywhere and he still doesn't know whether the aliens that kidnapped them are in league with those fools who are trying to use mind-controlled geese for a takeover of Earth's best vineyards (unlikely, even those simpletons are better organized than this) or interplanetary pirates who thought (erroneously) that Earth would be a good neutral hideout for their booty (it would explain the kind of locks he spotted) or commonplace smugglers equipped with propulsion technology they should clearly not be allowed to use (he is leaning towards the last), and he also has no idea of what possible importance are the painted avian bones they wear – obviously – as symbols of… something. (He can't stand not knowing things.)

“Time flies when you're having fun!” calls out Jack far too cheerfully.

The chains ding on the steel wall when he gets up (finally!) and he turns to free Mycroft with – he knew it! – that too-brilliant smile of his firmly in place.

Mycroft glares all the way out of the tank, into the alien felons' hiding place (which is really far too easy to find, do they have no brains? Well, he can see they do have brains, their skulls are reminescent of lacework, but are those brains functioning, he must wonder?), through the extremely thorough dressing down he delivers (if they must kidnap people, can't they at least do it properly? They didn't even leave a guard behind!) and the tart critique of their operation he doesn't spare them (Mycroft has not only deduced it in its entirety at last, but also figured out three ways to improve it and six ways to obtain the same results faster with different methods) while Harkness' small team (including their alarming leader who, Mycroft deigns to point out, is dangerously unbalanced and close to breaking point, not that anyone bothers to heed his warning) proceed to arrest the pitiful smugglers and hoard any technology they can find (none of which is of much worth, but Mycroft doesn't bother commenting on it) and then until the very uncomfortable phone call with his less than understanding nominal boss (what part of 'covered by NDA' can she not understand?) is concluded and he can snap the cell phone shut with a satisfyingly loud click.

Then he leaves.

He passes by the pouting Harkness without a second glance. He needs a shower and a drink and some good music – possibly some chocolate cake too. He also needs to be away from that infuriating man.

(No, the undoubtedly excellent sex would _not_ be enough to brighten his mood. He doesn't _do_ legwork – nasty, disturbing, uncomfortable…!

He needs minions.)

What with one thing and another, Mycroft never gets around to ask Harkness' opinion of the Doctor, whom he has had a chance to meet the previous spring.

(In a rather convoluted set of circumstances that involved a rather aggressive teenager, a rather impressive adventuress, a rather unoriginal murderer obsessed with the number seven, too many explosives for anyone's peace of mind, innovative use of the Doctor's collection of spanners, and a duck; circumstances that Mycroft does his best to forget afterwards, and that make his reammission to the Diogenes Club  _that he co-founded_ irritatingly problematic).

His own general impression of the short fellow with bulgy eyebrows and an incongruous Scottish accent (although he is aware that the way the Time Lord looks is somewhat ancillary) who, despite his mask of eccentric, light-hearted buffoon, actually has a Machiavellian streak to rival Mycroft's own and a cunning ability to manipulate any situation however he wishes (...and questionable fashion sense. Except for the umbrella. Mycroft might just have to procure himself an umbrella, because as the Time Lord proved, they are very versatile tools - excellent for disarming and tripping opponents, unnerving suspicious characters, hiding useful things into, as grappling hooks, as measuring rods, as walking-canes and even simply to lean onto. While looking good. _And_ their intended purpose is rather useful in London's weather. Yes, Mycroft will find himself an umbrella post haste) is not very favourable.

In fact, Mycroft does _not_ like the Doctor.

As a general rule, he does not like anything he cannot control, and that particular alien is the very definition of 'uncontrollable'.

He acknowledges the Time Lord's (various and unique) contributions to the protection of Mycroft's planet (he does have manners) but he rather thinks Queen Victoria had the right measure of the man.


	8. Christmas Day, 2002

Then come Sherlock's drugs and the days blur into a maelstrom of worry and anger and yet more worry, watching his baby brother self-destruct and feeling helpless, until Christmas is the last thing on his mind and Jack Harkness' visits even further than that.

So he doesn't even notice that the pattern gets broken.

He spends the days around the pointless holiday in the waiting room of a clinic, living on awful coffee and tasteless snacks and little else, knowing Sherlock is going through a hell of his own making – he can hear the screams, for a while, and the puking – and he can't help – might do more harm than good – but he can't leave either, and the sad-looking sparute tree that appears in a corner in a miser attempt at bringing some cheer in a place devoid of it barely registers in his consciousness.

Harkness finds him anyway, on what is most likely Christmas Day, though for the first time in his life, Mycroft has lost track of the exact date.

The never-changing man sits next to him silently, for hours, none of his usual flirting jokes and infuriatingly tantalizing tidbits of knowledge, just a warm, comforting presence by his side, not quite touching – Mycroft's grateful for it, he isn't sure he could bear it with composure – but not leaving him to his nowadays-usual bleak thoughts.

Mycroft won't admit it of course, but he's surprised. He has never thought of Jack Harkness as a source of comfort, not even in the rare moments of sex-induced fondness; but as it turns out… he is rather good at it.

And Mycroft, uncharachteristically, is genuinely grateful.

When he rises to leave, Jack hands him a vial of murky yellow liquid. “To help with rehab,” is the only thing he says. “Merry Christmas.”

(Mycroft's overtired brain still works excellently – he has read a classified report on this serum, he remembers: the substance will not help with the addiction but if his brother can kick _that_ , this will ensure the aftereffect are minimised through cellular regeneration – how is he ever going to repay the man for this?)

“...Merry Christmas,” he manages in a whisper – but the man is already gone.


	9. Christmas Day, 2005

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By the time the right Christmas rolls around, Mycroft has worked his way up to unlimited clearance level, and he ends up asking a single question. (He really can't help it – he still likes showing off.)

The man doesn't appear the year after that unexpected gift and Mycroft realizes he will not resume the pattern that was broken, but rather continue it from now on.

(Jack will stubbornly maintain that there isn't a pattern. He visits Mycroft, he insists, when he feels like it and can manage his other duties around it. That it always happens on Christmas Day is just coincidence.

But Mycroft won't ever believe that because he doesn't believe in coincidences, period. The universe is rarely so lazy.)

Mycroft is still less than impressed with the choice of Christmas Day, but it is pleasant to have something to anticipate beyond Mummy's pudding, at least some of the time. Especially since in the intervening years, the festivities are mostly repetitions of the same elements over and over.

Mummy gushing over Sherlock's newest violin composition (his only concession to the practice of gift-giving), worrying about Mycroft's work hours (which is ridiculous, and really, burying his phone in Brussels sprouts to prevent him from working on Christmas Day is excessive) and trilling about their needing a girlfriend (utterly ludicrous) or grumbling about their smoking habits.

Sherlock himself bitching and moaning about boredom more than is reasonable to expect from a grown man, even one trapped in their parents' kitchen - unless some text from that incredibly useful Detective Inspector he eventually befriends catches his attention, at which point he'll switch to texting frantically and insulting the London MET from a distance.

(His brother has, at long last, found his way, or at least forged it, and while Mycroft isn't particularly happy with it – he worries, constantly – nor too impressed – to think he'd turn a childish game into a profession: typical Sherlock – he admits that it is, at least, better than the drugs, whose threat still looms over his brother's life, and if nothing else, Mycroft has enough authority to keep constant surveillance on him, which should lessen his chances of getting himself killed – albeit not for lack of trying on his part).

And Father expressing some rather distressing views on current politics (leaving Mycroft wondering wether he knows his parents at all – surely they were not always such Tories?) or talking for hours about acquaintances Mycroft barely remembers and never cared about (how does Sherlock always avoid these long-winded excruciatingly useless conversations? Mycroft needs to learn that trick) while sipping substandard brandy (despite the fact that Mycroft invariably brings a bottle of finer quality as a present) and generally making Mycroft regret not staying in the office with all of himself (although he knows he'll get guilt-tripped into visiting his parents again next year, work would be much preferable to this agony. How can a day last so long?)

Followed by a flurry of frantic activity once he can finally return to his office (his minions are good – he chose them himself after all – but they have an unavoidable propensity to defer to people of rank who for their part have the distressing tendency to turn into headless chickens if left to their own devices too long.)

In any case it is four years before he sees Jack Harkness again.

(In person, that is. Copies of the reports of the man's activity as Head of Torchwood Three appear on his desk with regularity, so he knows very well what Harkness is up to; and normally dryly written papers, poorly-shot pictures and uncertainly directed videos would be enough for Mycroft – he can get anything he might need from them and they do not require the wearying social construct of 'small talk' – but even so, it isn't really the same.)

By the time the right Christmas rolls around, Mycroft has worked his way up to unlimited clearance level, and got his hands on Harkness' personal file.

Most of it is redacted, of course, some of it is confusing and hardly believable, and he can tell even with just a superficial reading that some of it is deliberately misdirecting.

Mycroft isn't a genius for nothing however and he could piece together the truth from less than what he is given.

He pours the man a whiskey and cuts the triumphantly decadent chocolate cake Jack has brought (that is, Mycroft decides, the utmost pinnacle of chocolate-using patisserie and isn't it a pity manners demand that he shares it?) and he doesn't mean to, he really doesn't, but he ends up asking a question anyway. A single one. (He really can't help it – he still likes showing off.)

“What is it like?”

“What is what like?”

“Living forever.”

Jack's easy smile vanishes. “Lonely.”


	10. Christmas Day, 2009

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft isn't looking forward to Christmas with any sort of impatience, of course not, but… well. He kind of is.  
> Except Harkness doesn't show up when he should.

Looking back from some time down the line, Mycroft will identify the sharing of that chocolate cake as the last peaceful Christmas celebration he'll have for years.

Alien presence on Earth in general, and in London in particular, increases alarmingly after that and Mycroft is dreading the day his brother will find out the truth (and inescapably involve himself): a day that is coming closer, since every episode is more blantant and difficult to explain away than the last.

The spaceship crash-landing in the Thames is possibly the worst, because it hits him close to home, so to speak.

(Mycroft comes out of the harrowing day with firm plans for countermeasures against shapeshifters of all kinds to be drawn up _post haste_. Really, they should have been in place already!

He has barely averted World War III – no thanks to the current world leaders, nor anyone in the current administration for that matter: how could no-one but him notice that the supposed Acting Prime Minister wasn't, in fact, Joseph Green? Never mind how odd it was that the chairman of a Parliamentary committee for the monitoring of _sugar standards_ in exported confectionary was the highest-ranking member of the government still within London?

But then, people are slow, even in the face of obvious clues – much to his annoyance: it is clear to him from the start that the entire thing is a hoax to incite panic and provoke a war, yet it is all he can do to ensure that even if the UN releases the codes for a nuclear strike, as it looks likely – people can be unbearably stupid – it will do no good to whoever is pulling the strings of this operation – obviously someone with a clear agenda, and the ability to impersonate Humans.

How could they not have safety measures for such an eventuality already? Mycroft hasn't felt this unprepared since he clean forgot an assignment – for the first and last time – when he was thirteen.

The disastrous state that international relations will be in after this is a looming nightmare and the added stress of the media storm around the event is certainly not helping.

Not a good day by any stretch of the imagination.

And if the blowing up of 10 Downing Street proves to be a solution – an efficient one, even, but also a headache-inducing one, not to mention expensive for the national budget – that does not mean his mood isn't sour; and there is the decimation of UNIT besides, which Britain will take time and effort to recover from, and the aftermath of the exhausting day to handle – bless Harriet Jones and her quick-thinking, she handles the press and emergency services magnificently and her proud, no-nonsense speech is exactly what the political climate calls for: Mycroft can already see her brilliant career unrolling before her – perhaps the one pleasing note in all of this.)

(He will see satisfactory Protocols for dealing with the fraudulent impersonation of a legally elected representative in place within the month.)

The alien slavers with a fondness for blood and bones are also a rather awful annoyance (Mycroft almost curses aloud as he races back from the country – and that is the last Christmas he'll spend with his parents, he swears, no matter how much Mummy pleads. What is it with aliens and Christmas, anyway? Mycroft is really not impressed with the timing), but far from the worst (at the very least, Harriet Jones proves herself up to the task of managing the nation, even if he isn't there to hold her hand.)

(It is a pity her star is already setting – he quite likes her – but perhaps this Harold Saxon won't be a bad replacement, all in all, once he claws his way up to the top.)

Mycroft weathers the disaster that is the destruction of Torchwood One rather better than most (he regrets not shutting them down sooner, certainly, he rather sinned of hybris there – and the horrifying body count is there to remind him of his failure in assessing the risk they posed to the nation; but he isn't truly affected either on a professional or personal level. Besides, he is quickly reassured that Harkness has the rebuilding well in hand and is doing a rather better job then his predecessors, even with limited resources.)

The Thames being drained a mere fortnight after the Annual Draw Off had ended and service resumed, however, is _not_ what a perpetually budget-constrained municipality needs, doubly so when it leads to demonstrations in the streets (thank God for UNIT and their long experience in handling the Doctor's catastrophes, even in their reduced numbers they seem to be up to the task and Mycroft is quite willing to wash his hands of that particular alien – fund raising for repair measures is more than challenging enough).

And there is the new Minister of Defence Saxon's troubling response to the starship in the sky (the use of British Army tanks to destroy it is novel and not in a good way, though Mycroft will reserve judgement for a bit while he observes the man).

Even more troubling are Saxon's loud speeches about the existence of extraterrestrial life and how Britain must do something about it. He certainly isn't helping to keep panicked reactions at bay and while Mycroft appreciates how popular it is making him (especially in the wake of that hospital vanishing for hours – to the Moon of all places, if survivors are to be believed) that doesn't mean he approves of the tactic.

In truth, Mycroft isn't altogether sure what to think of the new Minister of Defence and it is a worrisome fact: he hasn't been so uncertain about someone in years.

He isn't adverse to supporting Saxon as Prime Minister – for a politician, he appears to be surprisingly trustworthy – but something niggles at Mycroft in the back of his mind, a discordant note in the symphony the man is conducting, and it leaves him with mixed feelings about the whole situation.

For starters, Mycroft is baffled that he never noticed Harold Saxon before, because how is this even possible? Someone as remarkable as that cannot have gone unnoticed so long – unless he wanted to, like Mycroft himself, but even so… and why change strategy all of a sudden? He's certainly going for the spotlights now...

This bears investigation.

It has been a while since Mycroft had to actually check on anything himself: he has a carefully constructed web of assistants, aides, secretaries, informants, and other minions to do the legwork for him, now, (and occasionally his brother), and merely goes through their summarized reports unless something truly important comes up.

Harold Saxon and the oddities piling up around him rank as truly important.

The man's best-selling autobiography, _Kiss Me, Kill Me,_ is fraught with inconsistencies that, strangely enough, do not seem to raise any alarm in Mycroft's assistants – it is as if they can't spot them, or if they do, they can't bring themselves to care – and even more strangely, tend to disappear when Mycroft gets closer – people suddenly 'remembering' Saxon's youth even as records of it 'appear'… it is all rather disturbing.

Mycroft is used to thinking of himself as a good judge of character and his instincts push him to trust Saxon, but he finds little to rationally support this assessment and uncharachteristically, he starts to doubt himself.

It is altogether troubling.

Mycroft is also unsure about Saxon's crown jewel, the Archangel Network – hailed as a telecommunications breakthrough the world over – which he can't seem to make head or tail of (and how odd is that? He might grant Saxon a greater understanding of engineering, which has never been an interest of his, but at least the basic principles should be within his ability to grasp.) Of course, it _is_ an excellent piece of telecommunications engineering; everybody has Archangel (Mycroft himself included) because it is just _better_ than any other networks (and those are slowly passing to being carried by Archangel too anyway). But one thing is sure: it is _not_ a mere mobile phone network. Those fifteen satellites in orbit have another purpose, one he can't quite figure out.

(It is thrilling and distressing in almost equal measure.)

He knows – he can _feel_ almost – that something is afoot. Something unnerving, something dangerous in the broadest meaning of the term, and it is rooted in the blond man playing the media darling so masterfully; it is bigger, though: bigger than just the Archangel Network, bigger even than just Saxon's careers, he suspects, but what exactly it is, Mycroft cannot yet see. He can sense it brewing, can almost trace the contours of a picture he can but half-see, but it is not yet within his ability to make it out properly.

It is disconcerting.

Mycroft knows his mind is subconsciously processing clues he has yet to properly frame consciously but it is worrisome that he cannot see the plan clearly even though he knows there is one.

And Harold Saxon, who is so obviously at the centre of it, remains surprisingly – frustratingly – outside of Mycroft's reach; in fact, he is actively reducing Mycroft's influence by growing his own – a rather unexpected complication, and a testament to Saxon's Machiavellian skills.

Mycroft might just have found a match for his own intellect: something he had not believed possible.

Nevertheless, the slogan “Vote Saxon” is met with enthusiasm everywhere, making him predict another lanslide victory in the general election, like Harriet Jones before (...It is a true pity that her health failed her, but alas, such is life. Then again, Mycroft is having some health concerns of his own: surely it is not normal to hear a persistent drumbeat no-one else perceives, with no evident physical cause? He almost laughs in his doctor's face when he delicately suggests 'stress management strategies' – as if he hadn't coped with high stress levels all his adult life! – but _something_ must be the matter with him…) and like it or not, Mycroft must prepare himself for working closely with the disquieting man who will almost certainly be Prime Minister come summer, and definitely _not_ favour Mycroft, much less heed his advice.

It won't be the first time he has to work with, or most often around, an elected government (and the legions of politicians from other parties flocking to the winner's side) he disapproves of, of course. It is somewhat startling however, to realize that resigning himself to a highly intelligent individual likely to oppose him strenuously rising to power is more vexing than resigning himself to an incompetent moron likely to oppose him strenuously doing the same.

The man himself seems as wary of Mycroft as Mycroft is of him.

He seems to _see_ Mycroft, in a way most people around him don't. They tend to remember him only when they're in trouble and need his help, or when he drops by to collect on a favour he is owed, and Mycroft works incessantly to keep things this way. Saxon is _different_ and it would be interesting if it wasn't so troublesome.

He should perhaps find it flattering that Saxon so obviously on guard against him – Mycroft doesn't even merit an invitation to Saxon's wedding to the Honourable Lucy Cole (and it's been a long while since he has been excluded from this kind of social events in the political world of Great Britain, his influence having spread all the more for having remained discreet) – but it does make things more complicated.

Apart from everything else… _why_ is Saxon wary of Mycroft? Two minds such as theirs should more likely work together than in opposition and yet… Can Mycroft really have lived in the same country as such a man and never noticed? Surely they would have crossed paths before? In this world of dull goldfish, a mind like Saxon's must shine – so how has he escaped Mycroft's notice so far?

He isn't even entirely sure of what Saxon's end game is (are they even playing on the same board? They don't seem to be using the same rules).

Some things about him make so little sense. Why support Richard Lazarus' research? It took Mycroft all of an evening to dismiss it as infeasable and he was not at all surprised that it turned into tragedy (good thing he didn't bother attending the soiree). Yet Saxon appeared fascinated. The misuse of Home Office resources is also troubling (what could a medical student of little relevance possibly have done – or know – to warrant being spied on, and her family so carefully monitored?) and he knows it is Saxon that has hijacked Torchwood Three, sending them to the Himalayas for no logical reason except to get them out of the way (also rather troubling, especially since Harkness is nowhere to be found).

What does Harold Saxon _want?_

More and more, Mycroft grows worried about this politician marching to a far too different drummer.

(Harold Saxon does, indeed, become Prime Minister of Britain in May 2008. Mycroft never hears his victory speech: the kill orders for him, and other select threats to the Master's power, are sent before the vote counting is completed and they are barely given any time to react to USA President Winters' abrupt death before a similar fate befalls them.

And then, of course, none of this happens.)

Quite suddenly, Saxon and Winters are both gone – speculations run wild, with no sensible explanation forthcoming – and Mycroft is left reeling.

(Not that the loss is great, all things considered, but there is little sense to be found in any of the halting explanations he can put together and he can't stand not knowing. If he was his brother, he'd be yelling from a rooftop, demanding the universe explain what the hell has happened.)

(He will never know the full truth.)

Meanwhile, of course, there are also more mundane concerns all along, that take up as much as Mycroft's time and attention as the various alien emergencies cropping up with such irritating frequency.

The world is entering a global financial crisis that will keep him busy for years, the ebbs of internal politics – even independently of Saxon's baffling career – are changing in ways that need to be carefully monitored and sometimes re-oriented and, in short, a host of problems at home and abroad engage even Mycroft's brain with a certain level of interest.

Yes, 2005 was clearly the calm before the storm.

And though Mycroft isn't looking forward to the third Christmas after that with any sort of impatience, of course not… well. He kind of is.

Except Harkness doesn't show up when he should.

(Sometimes, patterns are broken, he reminds himself. There could be a number of reasons for this – Mycroft has come up with several logical ones at the drop of a hat – and it's not like he misses the man – sentiment of that sort is perfecly useless.)

...The fact remains that he is disappointed.

(This is irritating. Why is Jack Harkness always able to unsettle him, even when he isn't there? That man is infuriating.)

He briefly considers seeking the man out himself – it's not like he doesn't know where he is based – but he dismisses the idea at once with even greater irritation (caring is not an advantage).

Of course, he is quite busy that Christmas, what with an incongruous, flying replica of the Titanic almost eradicating London (Mycroft's too-quick mind works out very fast the immediate and long-term consequences that the nuclear destruction of their capital will cause, and he comes as close to panic as he allows himself, knowing millions of refugees, tense scrambling for unlikely international support, and quite possibly a wave of nationalist and violent attitudes are in their future if they can't stop this, and that they have no means to do so.

Nor is he particularly happy that Her Majesty so blatantly trusts the Doctor, to the point that the mad alien actually has a phone line directly to her: next thing he'll be parking his absurd ship in the gardens of Buckingham Palace!)

He still finds the time to carefully analyse his own disappointment (over a relationship built on a smattering of shared days and nothing more, as he pointedly reminds himself) and he comes to the conclusion that it is for the best – it is far more sensible, and altogether safer, to simply accept the distance that has been placed between them and focus on more important matters.

(Mycroft can't know that Jack doesn't make it because he is busy being tortured and killed day in and day out by a crazily powerful, psychotic Time Lord, because of course, that Year... Never Was.

He also can't know that the last few years have been a mess of unparalleled proportions for Jack, what with losing Rose to Daleks and Cybermen – he has cried over the list of fallen at Canary Wharf like he hadn't in decades, knowing he wouldn't see the bright star of a girl he loves again, after all – along with most of Torchwood – good riddance, but still – and let's not even mention the amount of work fixing that mess required, thank God for UNIT, really; but Mycroft knows nothing of Rose of course...

And then the Thames being drained, the Titanic crashing into Buckingham Palace, and then _not_ crashing, but only by a hairsbreath, that very same Christmas – not that Mycroft will ever notice, of course, but Jack has more experience with alternate timelines and the technology to track them, although he can't very well show up at Mycroft's to celebrate the fact they didn't go up in a fungus of radiation when the genius will never know they would have...

And then there is his not-relationship with his daughter and lying to his grandson and fairies and cannibals and cyberwomen in their basement and God, Jack should be used to all this madness by now, and maybe having a team again helps a little, he'll give them that much, but things keep piling up, anyone would be a little unhinged, right?...

And then he got to finally meet the Doctor again, but it was all wrong, and then the Master – although Jack doesn't think aobut that Year, nope, not ever, he does need to cling to his leftover sanity, so just no – and really, the amount of Retcon that mess required is crippling Torchwood budget, it really is, if aliens don't stop invading Earth at least for a few years he'll end up broke and...

...and the truth is, Jack is a mess of unparalleled proportions himself.

Mycroft has no idea.)

Mycroft gets over his disappointment very quickly. He has perfect control of his emotions after all, it is just a matter of acknowledging and then dismissing the surprising reaction to a simple missed meeting. Quite easily done.

There are then more mundane concerns to return to, again and always, like the need of a new Prime Minister now that Harriet Jones' career has come to an abrupt end and Harold Saxon's star has risen and then fallen so rapidly (Mycroft spends a lot of time – a _lot_ of time – wondering what possessed him to support that particular candidate in his bid for 10 Downing Street, because it makes no sense at all in retrospect: he can't have been in his right mind. And isn't that a disturbing thought?) or the fact that too many nations he disapproves of are now testing nuclear weapons; there is Mummy's failing health and the necessary preparations for London’s hosting of the 2012 Olympics, Russia's gambits on natural gas and Sherlock spiralling down a worrisome path of manic recklessness and depressive boredom dotted with life-threatening stunts, bad-to-worse flats and occasional relapses that make Mycroft feel more tired than managing both Koreas through yet another war-threatening crisis.

(And he can't help, God, he wishes he could take over his brother's life and _fix it_ but he can't control Sherlock's behaviour at all, even trying generally backfires, all he can do is worry, constantly.

He can't understand his brother. He might not be as clever as Mycroft, but he isn't too far behind. He could do anything at all, and yet. It's not that he lacks passion – the violin is proof of that – it's that he lacks _direction_ ; and he won't let Mycroft give it to him – foolish little brother.

He thought playing detective might work, but even DI Lestrade only helps so much, and lack of cases leads to danger nights and a rollercoaster of enthusiasm and depression that almost always skirts Sherlock's death and Mycroft is so _tired_ of it. If only he could lock his brother up in a lab somewhere… surely he could keep himself occupied?...)

There is, in short, a whole world spinning incessantly under Mycroft's careful watch, so he pushes Jack Harkness out of his mind and concentrates on keeping his nation (and occasionally, his planet) working as he believes it should.

When he eventually sees Jack Harkness again, a year later than he expected, the first thing he thinks is that his web of minions needs a serious overhaul because nothing he's read in any of their reports can possibly explain the devastation in Jack's eyes, the weariness in his body. The despondency Mycroft can easily read in him, the loss and deep-seated fear and sense of failure. The grief. And...

Mycroft can't help being a genius. His mind works out clues so fast he literally can't stop himself from drawing the right conclusions. It's reflex. And he has enough knowledge of psychology to recognize the aftereffects of torture and his blood goes _cold_.

(Not terribly recent, months past at the least, and pushed out of his own consciousness quite deliberately, but still effecting him. The guilt and grief are strong enough to be touched, too – he almost feels ill himself, just looking at Jack. God, what happened to him?)

They don't talk about their jobs, not openly (never openly – Harkness has been in a secret organization for so long he has probably forgotten how to be open and Mycroft, as a civil servant, is highly aware of the importance of discretion) and they most certainly don't _ask_ (Mycroft won't, because it's an unspoken rule he sees the sense in, but he wants to, oh, he _wants_ to, to know for sure, and for once, he would accept his deductions being proven wrong, really he'd be relieved if they were, though of course, they wouldn't be) but he should already know, he really should, why doesn't he know? Clearly, he needs to replace the incompetent idiots who work for him with more efficient workers because _he doesn't know_ and _he cannot ask_ and this is unacceptable!

There is a lot of silence between them because Mycroft needs to _think_ – a rush of unexpected emotion always takes a while to properly process and handle – and Jack is in no state to draw him out.

Their time in bed that night is less about pleasure than about comfort (and Mycroft doesn't _do_ comfort – useless thing, pointless in most cases, people get over their need for it eventually whether it is offered or not, why waste his time on it?) …No, Mycroft isn't much for giving comfort. Caring is not an advantage – how often has he told Sherlock this? – but he remembers glaring neon lights and too-white coats and a sad looking tree in a corner and a vial of serum that brought his baby brother back from the abyss Mycroft let him throw himself in; and he makes an effort.

Surprisingly, it seems to be enough, inadequate as it feels. But then, he is a genius. When he does something, of course he does it well. He wonders, though. He doesn't really know if it'll last, if he helped at all beyond tonight, and he cannot ask, and so he'll keep wondering.

He doesn't throw Jack out in the morning either. (Patterns keep being broken and he isn't sure how to feel about it. He'll have to think this over carefully.) Mycroft has work to do – so much work, always – and his brother to worry about – constantly – but Jack is warm and strong and smells good and surely even a useless sentimental holiday like Christmas can have some good in it now and then?

But Jack himself leaves before he can even offer the man breakfast, like always, and Mycroft locks the frivolous thoughts he has started to entertain away with relieving ease.

(He will not hear from the man again for a good long while.)


	11. Christmas Day, 2012

When Sherlock meets the Doctor for the first time (the leather-wearing, casually destructive version so clearly in love with the unremarkable, spirited blonde teen) Mycroft's job becomes infinitely more complicated.

(Not the job he is paid for, that is always the same, Korea and Russia notwithstanding: the self-appointed job of keeping his foolish, rash, slightly-insane brother safe.)

There is the time John Watson adopts an alien cat and the time when half the MET is struck with an alien flu that turns out to have been deliberately targeted (Sherlock's delight in the whole case is slightly disturbing) and the time when a group of alien fanatics chooses Earth to preech their True Religion (as if Humans didn't have more than enough of those already) and the time Sherlock almost interrupts a session of the full Parliament because he thinks a member of a reptilian race has hidden in the air vents of the main hall (when Mycroft can tell at a glance the scaly creature has veered off to the heater room – it is plainly written in the maid's apron and the disarrayed luggage of the public broadcasting team and the obvious traces on the wall)...

There are the several occasions when John and Sherlock get kidnapped by aliens (and he had had such high hopes, at first, that Doctor Watson would manage to keep Sherlock in check!) adding themselves to the several occasions when the pair get kidnapped by local criminals (then again, he had seen in Watson's hand tremor that he would more gladly walk through fire with his little brother than keep himself and Sherlock out of trouble, and at least, the good doctor has proven himself loyal, resourceful and capable of patching his brother up – Mycroft can hardly ask for more from a mere man).

Not to mention that mess with the Americans (he rather likes that Canton Delaware III, truly, but it still rankles that the situation is handled mostly across the pond – Americans are far too prone to make a mess of things, and their propensity for guns is irritating: he'd be more comfortable if the operation was under _his_ control), the dragging aftermaths of the Medusa Cascade Incident (which Mycroft prefers to think about as little as possible, please and thank you) or Ms. Adler so skillfully destroying months and years of anti-terrorism planning (and costing him far too much professionally – he hasn't been so furious with his brother since Sherlock was eight and destroyed Mycroft's prized telescope for 'an experiment'. Although in the end, it is Mycroft's own fault, because the entire thing was textbook: one lonely naïve man desperate to show off, and a woman clever enough to make him feel special. He should never have put her on Sherlock's path.)

In comparison, Sherlock breaking into secret facilities (what is Watson thinking, letting him do such a stunt? At least it's Baskerville and not Torchwood), attempting to relive a victim's last moments (and why DI Lestrade is whining about it to _him_ , Mycroft doesn't know) or pretending to be a comic books villain (really, why is Doctor Watson allowing, nay, encouraging such behaviour? Mycroft'll have to have a word with him, _again_ ), all rather pale into ordinariness, particularly in light of the confusing reports coming in from the countryside of Gloucester (Mycroft has ended up paying an operative to live in Leadworth, just to keep an eye on the mad alien – the bow-tied version – who keeps showing up for any sort of reasons, including a _wedding_ , of all things) and the scrambling on UNIT's part to handle the various smog-loving, bus stealing, mind-manipulating, and Lord knows what else, alien threats that just don't leave Earth well-enough alone.

It comes to the point that when Mycroft receives a request to locate 'an 18 th  century pirate' in 'a 200 miles radius from London', he just sighs the long-suffering sigh of elder brothers everywhere and delegates the task to a minion.

It is a pity he can no longer send the bill for the overtime to Torchwood Three – it's their job they're failing to do, after all; it could have helped with the budget reductions they're all contending with, and if Jack Harkness had chosen to come and complain in person… well. Mycroft wouldn't have minded.

(The thought rather surprises him, especially after all this time.)

But of course the man is nowhere to be found.

Not after the utter nightmare designated as “456” – children in danger all over the world, people losing their heads left and right (for good reasons, but to no gain whatsoever), Mycroft's allies and co-workers disappointingly indulging in panic when there is work to do, countermeasures to come up with... damn it, even a genius like him can't very well manage a crisis of this magnitude _on his own_ , especially with the idiocy spreading among those in power – Green concerning himself with nothing but saving his own skin (and not even having the decency to let other people do their part, the damn moron: destroying that fool's career afterwards will be too little, too late, and not nearly gratifying enough), Frobisher gasping and drowning in waters too deep for him to swim in (and eventually taking the path of an elegant Greek tragedy as his way out of the world-wide disaster), even the Home Secretary losing her usual coolness and snapping irrationally (he never would have expected Denise Riley of all people to become so ruthlessly emotive, but he supposes being a mother trumps even being a politician).

The 456 crisis is exhausting, nightmarish, and with no hope of a positive resolution. (If Mycroft could get his hands on whoever mishandled the First Contact back in 1965…) He hates being so helpless, but all he could do is work on strategies to minimize and attenuate the inevitably devastating consequences.

He regrets his inability to protect his… friend?… and goes over the reports on the destruction of Torchwood Three with more sorrow than he's allowed himself in years, but there is just too much to do to spare any thought for the betrayed Torchwood agents. He has a world to settle from justified panic.

Later (much later), he'll wonder if there is anything he could do for Jack… If the man will even come to him.

(He doesn't.)

Later, he'll wade through the non-official reports surrounding the 456 Regulation to try to piece together Harkness' whereabouts.

(He disappeared quite thoroughly.)

Later, he'll be informed of Harkness' grandson's sacrifice, and he'll understand.

No, Harkness won't be found on Earth after _that_.

And Mycroft doesn't blame him.

He has other things to worry about than Harkness' vanishing act in any case – first and last, Moriarty.

Above it all, and underneath it all, there are Moriarty's game and Mycroft's own gamble with the dangerous man: and suddenly most of Mycroft's life seems to fade into a greyish background, unimportant around the sharp clarity and vivid colours of The Plan he and Sherlock have concocted, and how it fits and locks with the genius consulting criminal's plots.

Move by move, they play the Game – through daring gambits and costly mistakes, through clever bluffs and quick reactions, the thrill of gaining advantage and the thrill of risking a loss – they play the Game until they case their worthy opponent into a seeming check-mate, where the White King Moriarty, initiator of the Game, believes himself to be concluding it as well (Sherlock's reputation an unavoidable sacrifice – nothing gained with nothing risked – and Dr. Watson's unwilling cooperation just as distastefully required, though Mycroft _is_ sorry) while it is really the Blacks' victory, even with their Horses under threat of those snipers, in no small measure thanks to the overlooked Bishop Dr. Hooper.

(It is all rather exhilarating.)

The day of the final meeting between his brother and the dangerous psycopath they've been playing with is one of the most nerve-wrecking of Mycroft's life, but they are ready: there are thirteen different possible scenario that might take place on that roof and they've set up a solution for each and every one of them; his brother needs only text him the code word to set the right one in motion.

Of course, Moriarty does the unpredictable – shooting himself, how idiotic; ego, Mycroft reflects, might just be as much a disadvantage as caring – but they adapt; they'll always adapt, and they'll always play the Game to the very end and beyond, and eventually, they will always _win._

So Sherlock 'dies' and things go on, The Plan unfolding.

Mycroft has long since started to gather all information about their foe's criminal network, knowing every shard of it is indispensable: piece by piece, they'll tear Moriarty organization to shreds. Mycroft is confident in what he has extracted from the genius criminal while he had him in his clutches and just as confident in the intelligence his minions continue to gather: at this point, it is just a lengthy matter of legwork.

(And isn't it convenient that _Sherlock_ is the one who handles it?)

With every days that passes, with every report of risks taken and close calls, Mycroft knows they're approaching the end they've aimed for from the start. He is developing an ulcer worrying for his brother, of course, but what else could he have done?

(John Watson's accusations ring in his ears anyway and all his logical rationalizations sound hollow.)

(But they are winning. That'll be enough.)

By the time summer rolls around, he is so distracted even the absurd foray of the Doctor at the 2012 Olympics passes him by – he is rather more concerned with that odd case in New Dehli, that has his brother's signature all over it, whatever Sherlock might try to claim: as if that Inspector could have worked out the depth to which the chocolate flake had sunk into the victim’s ice-cream cone on his own! He's supposed to be hiding, taking down Moriarty's web _from the shadows_ , but he just can't help getting involved, can he? Oh, no, not Sherlock Holmes!

(Let's not even go over the Tibetan jaunt. Really, let's not. Mycroft is already drinking too much tea as it is.)

The following Christmas festivities are a nightmare in slow, slow motion, dragging on at a snail's pace. (He managed to avoid the family dinner at the cottage, but his parents showed up in London and he can't very well throw them out.) Sherlock is who-knows-where – Mycroft has lost contact and is quietly going spare; nothing at work is complicated enough to sufficiently engage his attention. Mummy is upset and Father accusing and both are trying not to show it (they know, obviously, Mycroft would not be so cruel as to keep them in the dark about their _child_ , but as usual, they don't _understand_ ).

When Harkness does not come on Christmas Day, Mycroft doesn't summon the energy to be upset.


	12. Christmas Day, 2015

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Outside, snow covers Mummy's garden – just like it did the day they first met, all those years ago.

Three years later, Jack Harkness shows up on Christmas Day and Mycroft is actually _surprised_.

(Being caught off guard was always a rare occurrence and it has been happening less and less in recent years, unless Sherlock and Dr. Watson are involved. But Harkness has long been an exception of his own.)

He is so surprised he does something completely idiotic and calls up on his smartphone the last report on the man's whereabouts – which is obviously wrong and to be discarded at once so why reference it? Mycroft knows better than that – and protests: “You're supposed to be in Utah, dealing with the last Cybermen sightings!”

(He is far less dignified than he would prefer.)

Jack however nods, unbothered. “I am,” he says simply and Mycroft's mind is too quick to need explanations.

The _current_ Jack Harkness (if such a label can be used for timetravellers) is in Utah.

 _This_ Jack Harkness-- he stops for a moment and scrutinizes the man. Keen eyes pick up clues and quick mind works them out in the old game of deduction. This Jack Harkness is older. He has been travelling a lot as of late, at least part of the time on other planets. In fact, he hasn't been on Earth for a good long while. He carries grief and loneliness with him still, but neither is the heavy burden that had darkened those blue eyes and hunched those shouders the last time they'd been together. He has left the past they have occasionally shared behind and found a measure of peace. And...

And he has come back for Mycroft.

That is so surprising that Mycroft almost finds himself stumped. Mind races through all the possibilities, considering and discarding at lightning-fast pace. He wonders if he can trust his own conclusions.

“Why now?” he blurts out and forces himself not to wince at his own lameness. (Maybe he's getting old.)

Jack smiles wryly. “You were always going on about a 'pattern'. Which never existed, by the way. Still... Figured I should follow that, yeah?”

“Of course there is a pattern,” Mycroft says automatically.

Jack chuckles lightly. He gazes at Mycroft warmly, but says nothing else.

He is more restrained than Mycroft remembers, quieter, in a way, even in his body language. Not so much weighted as dimmed. (Mycroft wonders if he'll ever find out what made Jack Harkness who he is – but it is an idle thought. For once, he is not miffed by his own ignorance.)

They lean against the window they are standing by, bodies angled to each other, freezing glass and heavy curtains under Mycroft's still and Jack's restless hands.

Outside, snow covers Mummy's garden – just like it did the day they first met, all those years ago. Mycroft can see Sherlock smoking at the end of the short path, knows their parents and the Watsons are around somewhere.

The man by his side is looking at the winter landscape curiously, gaze darting here and there, but there is a patience in him Mycroft doesn't recognize. He is less edgy, less thrumming with bottled up energy. Less haunted.

Silence falls gently between them for a while.

Then Mycroft forces himself to break it. “Is this goodbye?” he asks softly, trying to stifle his sadness. (Pointless. Useless. Caring is not an advantage.)

“Yes.”

The curt syllable is like a blow. Mycroft nods, rigid and controlled, and pretends he's not bothered.

Jack's body language warms all of a sudden, becoming looser, more friendly; he leans invitingly towards Mycroft and even summons a creditable version of his old, megawatt smile: “But it can be a long goodbye,” he says earnestly. His blue, blue eyes gleam with playful interest. “Few decades long, maybe?”

Mycroft stops breathing.

Mycroft draws breath again.

“I am not usually much for drawing things out, but in this instance, I suppose I could bear it,” he says with remarkable coolness. (He has a lifetime of practice in keeping his cool, thankfully.)

(In the back of his mind, Sherlock's voice sounds clear and present. _I am not lonely_ , he had protested, only to be swiftly asked: _“How would you know?”_

...How indeed.)

Jack kisses him like all the universe spins around the two of them and even that is sad, because Mycroft is too intelligent and too cynical to believe such a thing, he knows he's nothing more than a blink of an eye to an immortal like Jack Harkness, he knows that even if the man does stay around for the rest of Mycroft's life, what he is offering is still nothing more than a handful of days.

And yet…

And yet.

“Thank you,” says Jack, warm and sincere and gorgeous.

And yet, maybe, it is worth it.

(Caring is not an advantage, of course. But Mycroft doesn't _need_ an advantage. He's a genius after all. So he kisses Harkness back.)

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to wellingtongoose on tumblr for her intriguing analysis of the Holmeses, that inspired several facets of this fic.  
>   
> Various dates have been adjusted to work better in the Trip of a Lifetime AU. I also assume as birth dates October 17th, 1973 for Mycroft and January 6th, 1981 for Sherlock.


End file.
